Merry Christmas! YO-HO-HO!! ‘Tis I, your Secret Santa! Thanks for chatting with me the past couple of weeks. I hope you enjoy your gift. I was an absolute pleasure to write it for you!!
Based on the prompt: I just wanted to put
Christmas lights up but I ended up falling off the ladder and crashing into you
while you were delivering a package to my door but oh god you’re hot, AND your
expressed love for the snowed in trope. Enjoy!
Rated: M – for sexy times / ~7600 words / Also available on ao3 and ff.net
beta’d
by the amazing @ilovemesomekillianjones, who also came up with its brilliant title. Thank you!
Emma finished securing the ladder to the side of
her house and began the perilous ascent to the rooftop. These probably weren’t
ideal conditions for hanging outdoor Christmas lights, but this was her only
day off for the next several days, and with a snow storm set to blow in later
that afternoon it was her one chance to get lights up before Christmas actually
came.
And she was gonna get these lights up.
And get the rest of her house decorated.
Before her Christmas tree was delivered.
So she could spend a cozy evening decorating her
first ever Christmas tree, in her first ever house, with the first snowfall of
the season swirling outside the windows that were all her own.
All hers.
Emma Swan had never had much that she could
actually call her own, which made this Christmas in her first house all the
more special. She planned to go all out. Garlands, and wreaths, and fake
candles in the window sills, lights on the outside of the house, and even a
real live Christmas tree.
Yup. It was going to be the best Christmas ever.
If she didn’t kill herself getting the house
lights up first.
In typical Maine fashion they’d had several days
of wet, dreary yuck leading up to the first potential snowfall, so everything
had a coating of moisture that would surely turn icy as the temperature began
to drop throughout the day. Emma meticulously worked to hang the outdoor lights
with as much haste as she could, without sacrificing precision. She’d just
gotten to the last stretch along the front of the house when she heard the
telltale sound of tires on gravel, indicating that someone was pulling up to
her secluded home on the outskirts of town.
As deputy of the small, coastal town of
Storybrooke, Emma got her fill of the citizenry day in and day out, through her
profession; so when the opportunity came to buy a home several miles out of the
way of the hustle and bustle of town, she’d jumped at it. Sure it was a little
inconvenient, but the privacy was exactly what she’d wanted, and the forest
views that surrounded most of her property weren’t too shabby either.
The distance, and slightly sketchy bridge that
spanned the little brook just off the main road, did sometimes make her feel
bad for those who had to trek out to her neck of the woods. Those like the
person currently making their way up her drive with a full and lovely Christmas
tree loaded in the back of a truck that had Jones Tree Farm displayed along its
side.
The same person who, ever since he’d arrived in
town five months prior, turned Emma into a ridiculous swooning cliche of a
woman.
Killian Jones.
The little… er, younger brother of
resident park services manager, Liam Jones.
The hot, seductively sinful, but slightly nerdy,
and totally sweet, (and single) brother of Liam Jones.
Ugh, there is SO MUCH SNOW here too. But I still love snowed in. Hello, my tropey friend.
I combined this with an anon request: “Prompt: My favorite trope! ‘Enemies’ who secretly love each other forced to come to terms with their feelings. Smooching fluff ensues. Bonus if their friends had a bet on when they’d finally get together”
It also got pretty long, so mostly under a cut. Sorrynotsorry.
-x-
“No.”
“Listen, darling, I’m not tickled by the idea either, but you’ve promised, and I’ve promised, so let’s just make the best of it, aye?”
“Just… you deal with upstairs. I’ll deal with down here. Then we get the hell out of here.” Emma gestures toward the staircase, her hands forming sharp shooing motions. “Let’s get this over with.”
“No need to get your knickers in a twist.” Killian frowns at her, scrubbing the back of his neck with his palm, brows knit in irritation. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he looks like he wants to say something else, but instead he sighs, resigned. “Just shout if you need anything.”
Emma nods, turning her back on the world’s most irritating man and making her way into the kitchen, debating if she should plot her best friend’s murder first or Killian’s.
It’s a hard choice. She despises Killian, he of the stupid leather coats that slide over his shoulder like melting butter, and the stupidly messy hair that perpetually screams he’s been freshly fucked, and the jeans that cling to his ass… and the irritating arrogance and certainty he’s always right.
Yeah, he dies first.
But then there’s also Emma’s supposed best friend who got her into this mess.
Come to the lake house for a long weekend. It’ll be fun. Relaxing. We might even get some snow. David’s invited a friend so you can’t even say you’ll just be a third wheel.
Mary Margaret left out that the friend was none other than Killian Jones, perpetual pain in the ass. Not only that, but before even twenty four hours had gone by, all of a sudden David had some emergency back in Storybrooke that required them to leave immediately.
Immediately, as in he had his coat on before the burner on the stove was even off with one foot halfway out the door. Her friends are bad liars to start, but then Mary Margaret had smiled as she pulled on her own coat. “I’m so sorry, Emma, but I’m sure Killian won’t mind giving you a ride home. You guys are welcome to stay up here tonight.”
“I’ll come with you,” Emma replied instantly.
“I’ll give the lass a ride home after we clean up,” Killian said at the same time, and damn him, but in that moment, his usual obnoxious good humor made Emma feel like a terrible human being for wanting to leave him alone with the responsibility of cleaning up their afternoon’s mess and waiting alone for the fire David had insisted on building up to die out.
Her friends didn’t wait for her to agree before they left, and now here she is, stuck with Jones, alone, in the middle of nowhere, Maine. It’s not fair. The lake house is beautiful, the iced over water shimmering in the muted winter light, the cheerful scent of woodsmoke on the air. It should be relaxing.
“Killian and Emma’s love is and has always been, a
masterpiece; a remarkable work of art illuminating essence of kindred
spirits in a way that will be admired for years to come” (x)
It All Starts With a Dance 